Tell him I’m sorry, Margaret. I tried to say it on the telephone tonight, but the line wasn’t clear and emotions ran too high. My apology is for a quieter time. I can’t imagine what favors Father pulled to secure passage for me, but I suspect the cost was high. Even after missing my ship, his telegram and Ambassador Campbell’s letter got me out. Thousands waited in Brest for passage that I fear won’t come without a longer wait and a higher cost.
We never saw it. We believed the Ligne Maginot would hold. We believed all those newly arrayed French soldiers sauntering through the Place de la Concorde represented a fraction of the thousands upon thousands ready to fight. We believed because the alternative was unthinkable. We believed what we were told. Propaganda.
I should have known better. After all, we were told the British were responsible for all our deprivations as well, and not the Germans. I knew that to be a lie.
In the end, the Maginot Line did hold. Each bunker stands untouched. The Germans bypassed it completely, swarming through the Belgian Ardennes with enough planes and tanks to scatter our defenses like paper soldiers easily blown in the wind.
As soon as we got word at the Schiap Shop, panic ensued and I became an instant outsider. That hit me hard, Margo. I felt I belonged here—there—but, as I said, the propaganda has been very anti-British over the past several months. Nevertheless, no one ever pointed a finger at me—until May 10 when I became an enemy, an outsider, and even my closest friends jeered.
“This isn’t your country. See to yourself.”
Dear Martine secured a ride west for me with her boyfriend, Pierre. Schiap would have helped, but she had left before. She left May 1 to visit Lyon in the South. It makes me wonder now . . . Maybe some of us did know.
I tried to make the ship, Margo. Tell Father that. Upon receiving his telegram, I hopped in Pierre’s truck and headed west. I didn’t wait a second. Neither did anyone else. All Paris, all northern France, emptied in a day, clogging the roads. People walked as their cars ran out of petrol, then died as German planes dropped bombs and fired upon the largest routes south and west.
Pierre drove me one hundred kilometers out of the city that first day before his truck died as well. I talked my way onto the back of a lorry to Orléans and caught a night train from there to Rochelle. I traveled for five days. I missed the first ship and broke down right there on the docks. A captain took pity on me and, seeing the letters, granted me a spot on his vessel.
I—
You’ll never guess!!! There is more to add, dear one, and since you’ll get this letter before you see me, I have to share here. We don’t keep secrets, right? We never have and I’ll not be the one to put a barrier between us now.
For one, I plan to head straight to the London House. I will spend this morning giving the officers here anything and everything I know about Paris and what’s going on there, then I will head to London. There is work to do and George has inspired me to get to it.
Yes, George is here. Well, he was . . . I must start at the beginning. It’s so exquisite it’s bursting out of me, and telling you will let me relive it.
George knocked on my door as I was writing to you last night and, upon answering it, I burst into tears. I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life. He caught me as I dropped to the floor and held me tight. He came for me, Margo. Not last night, but in Saint-Nazaire. He expected me to make Father’s reservation and had taken leave to meet me and escort me home. He said he was devastated when I didn’t show, but he had to come back. He was needed on duty and no one had any word about me.
But when I arrived yesterday a friend called him and he came. I clung to him so tight I thought I’d never let him go, but he laughed and said he needed to feed me. So off to a wonderful little restaurant for fish and chips we went. Despite not having a real meal in weeks, and very little in the past several days, I could barely eat. I simply couldn’t focus on anything but him. He looks gorgeous, Margo. We’ve been writing to each other, but I hadn’t seen him since last year and never in his uniform.
I felt so loved that happy tears flowed all through our meal. He kept reaching across the table to squeeze my hand, to assure me I was safe and admonish me to keep eating. He couldn’t believe my stories about how Paris was a study in deprivation. And I couldn’t believe all I saw here. Sandbags, blackout curtains, ration cards, and a tension and wariness, an alertness that matched my own. You tried to tell me in your letters; I simply wouldn’t listen. I held tight to my own imaginings for you—picnics with ginger beer, cold sandwiches in the sunshine, and cake. I’ve dreamt about a lot of cake in the past year. Is Derbyshire the same? Is Parkley as dark and barren? I’ve been so selfish, Margo. I never asked.
George assured me you are well. I didn’t know about your work, though, or Father’s. He reminded me that no one could tell who was reading our letters. At first, I thought he meant Schiap. She opened every piece of mail regardless if it was addressed to her or not. Her control was so tight. But then I recalled she started sending her letters through government friends and diplomatic pouches long ago, long before I ever did. It really is true, isn’t it? Enemies are everywhere now.
But not last night . . .
George walked me back to my room and hesitated at the door. I looked up in wonderment at his expression. It was so tentative, innocent, and yearning. He’s twenty-six, Margo, and I was not his first. If I didn’t know it then, I certainly know it now. He’s quite skilled. But, to his credit, he made me feel like I was his first, and his only.
I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Back to the door . . . At his hesitation, I turned the key in the lock and pulled him inside without a word. You would have been so impressed with my cool demeanor despite my heart beating into my throat. Every cell in me was alive and focused solely on him. In an instant, we were devouring each other. I couldn’t get close enough, fast enough. Nor could he. I breathed him in and was lost. He hesitated only once more as he
*
I sat up straight and looked out the window to ground myself as to when and where I was. And, if I was being really honest, to make sure my mom was focused on her own work and not watching me. I felt a little hot and flushed, not only by what I’d read but by imagining what came next. The page had been torn and nothing more remained.
Turning it over, I found the letter’s closing at the top.
*
He’s gone back to his base now. He has a mission tonight. He wouldn’t tell me what or where because it’s confidential and he doesn’t want me to worry. How can I not? Life has just begun, Margo, and who knew it could taste and feel so sweet.
I’m heading to the London House this afternoon and will register for an assignment there. I hope to see Father and deliver both my apologies and my thanks. Does he still attend military meetings at Whitehall? I’ll telephone Parkley if I don’t find him.
Come to London, Margo. There is so much more to tell you. We’ll curl into your bed like we used to and I’ll share every detail. To share with you is not kissing and telling—and I’ll get to relive it once more.
I love you, dearest.
Caro